PS 


ertinent  Poems 


EDMUND 
VANCE 


?W 

i 


I    LIBRARY 

uwvtKsrn  of- 

CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


17x5 


Impertinent    Poems 


Impertinent  Poems 


By 

Edmund   Vance    Cooke 

Author  of  "  A  Patch  of  Pansies," 
"  Rimes  to  be  Read,"  etc. 


BOSTON   AND    CHICAGO 

FORBES   &    COMPANY 

1903 


Copyright,  790?,  by 
EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE 


These   Impertinent   Poems 

are  dedicated  to  whomever 

may  like  them. 


COVER   DESIGNED  BY  ALTON   PACKARD 

Colonial  $rtss 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Simonds  &  Co. 
Boston.  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


A   PRE  -  IMPERTINENCE 

Anticipating  the  intelligent  critic  of  "  Im 
pertinent  Poems,"  it  may  well  be  remarked 
that  the  chief  impertinence  is  in  calling 
them  poems.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  editors 
and  publishers  of  The  Saturday  Evening 
Post  and  Ainslee's  Magazine  share  with  the 
author  the  reproach  of  first  promoting  their 
publicity.  That  they  are  now  willing  to  fur 
ther  reduce  their  share  of  the  burden  by 
dividing  it  with  the  present  publishers  en 
titles  them  to  the  thanks  of  the  author  and 
the  gratitude  of  the  book-buying  public. 

E.  v.  c. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Dead  Men's  Dust    . 1 1 

You  Too 15 

Don't  You?    .,....,.. 19 

Don't  Take  Your  Troubles  to  Bed 22 

Good 24 

Success 27 

The  Grill 31 

Blood  Is  Red      .     .     . 34 

Diagnosis 36 

The  Dilettante    . 38 

Desire 40 

Hush 43 

Plug      .......    f. 46 

Conscience  Pianissimo 51 

You  Wait 55 

Pass 58 

Move 6 1 

Are  You  You  ? 65 

The  Bubble  -  Flies 67 

How  Did  You  Die? 70 


IMPERTINENT      POEMS 

v 

DEAD   MEN'S    DUST 

You  don't  buy  poetry.     (Neither  do  I.) 

Why? 

You  cannot  afford  it?    Bosh!  you  spend 
Editions  de  luxe  on  a  thirsty  friend. 
You  can  buy  any  one  of  the  poetry  bunch 
For  the  price  you  pay  for  a  business  lunch. 
Don't  you  suppose  that  a  hungry  head, 
Like  an  empty  stomach,  ought  to  be  fed? 
Looking  into  myself,  I  find  this  true, 
So  I  hardly  can  figure  it  false  in  you. 

,,And  you  don't  read  poetry  very  much. 

(Such 

Is  my  own  case  also.)     "  But,"  you  cry, 
"  I  have  n't  the  time."    Beloved,  you  lie. 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 

When  a  scandal  happens  in  Buffalo, 
You  ponder  the  details,  con  and  pro; 
If  poets  were  pugilists,  could  n't  you  tell 
Which  of  the  poets  licked  John  L.? 
If  poets  were  counts,  could  your  wife  be 

fooled 

As  to  which  of  the  poets  married  a  Gould? 
And  even  my  books  might  have  some  hope 
If  poetry  books  were  books  of  dope. 

'  You  're  a  little  bit  swift,"  you  say  to  me, 

"See!" 

You  open  your  library.    There  you  show 
Your  "  favorite  poets,"  row  on  row, 
Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  Tennyson,  Poe, 
A  Homer  unread,  an  uncut  Horace, 
A  wholly  forgotten  William  Morris. 
My  friend,  my  friend,  can  it  be  you  thought 
That  these  were  poets  whom  you  had  bought? 
These  are  dead  men's  bones.     You  bought 
their  mummies 

12 


DEAD    MEN'S    DUST 

To  display  your  style,  like  clothing  dummies. 
But  when  do  they  talk  to  you?     Some  one 

said 

That  these  were  poets  which  should  be  read, 
So  here  they  stand.    But  tell  me,  pray, 
How  many  poets  who  live  to-day 
Have  you,  of  your  own  volition,  sought, 
Discovered  and  tested,  proved  and  bought, 
With  a  grateful  glow  that  the  dollar  you 

spent 
Netted  the  poet  his  ten  per  cent.  ? 

"  But  hold  on,"  you  say,  "  I  am  reading 
you" 

True, 

And  pitying,  too,  the  sorry  end 
Of  the  dog  I  tried  this  on.    My  friend, 
I  can  write  poetry  —  good  enough 
So  you  would  n't  look  at  the  worthy  stuff. 
But  knowing  what  you  prefer  to  read 
I  'm  setting  the  pace  at  about  your  speed, 


IMPERTINENT    POEMS 

Being  rather  convinced  these  truths  will  hold 

you 

A  little  bit  better  than  if  I  'd  told  you 
A  genuine  poem  and  forgotten  to  scold  you. 
Besides,  when  I  open  my  little  room 
And  see  my  poets,  each  in  his  tomb, 
With  his  mouth  dust-stopped,  I  turn  from 

the  shelf 
And  I  must  scold  you,  or  scold  myself. 


YOU    TOO 


YOU   TOO 

Did  you  ever  make  some  small  success 

And  brag  your  little  brag, 
As  if  your  breathing  would  impress 

The  world  and  fix  your  tag 
Upon  it,  so  that  all  might  see 
The  label  loudly  reading,  "  ME !  " 
And  when  you  thought  you   'd  gained 

the  height 

And,  sunning  in  your  own  delight, 
You  preened  your   plumes   and   crowed 

"All  right  1" 

Did  something  wipe  you  out  of  sight? 
Unless  you  did  this  many  a  time 
You  need  n't  stop  to  read  this  rime. 

When  I  was  mamma's  little  joy 
And  not  the  least  bit  tough, 
15 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 

I  'd  sometimes  whop  some  other  boy 

(If  he  were  small  enough) 
And  for  a  week  I  'd  wear  a  chip, 
And  at  the  uplift  of  a  lip 
I  'd  lord  it  like  a  pigmy  pope, 
Until,  when  I  had  run  my  rope, 
Some  bullet-headed  little  Swope 
Would  clean  me  out  as  slick  as  soap. 
No  doubt  you  were  as  bad,  or  worse, 
Or  else  you  had  not  read  this  verse. 

All  women  were  like  pica  print 
When  I  was  young  and  wise; 

I  'd  read  their  very  souls  by  dint 
Of  looking  in  their  eyes. 

And  in  those  limpid  souls  I  'd  see 

A  very  fierce  regard  for  me. 

And  then  —  my,  my,  it  makes  me  faint! — 

Peroxide  and  a  pinkish  paint 

Gave  me  the  hard,  hard  heart  complaint. 

I  saw  the  sham,  I  felt  the  taint, 
16 


YOU    TOO 

Yet  if  she  'd  pat  me  once  or  twice, 
I  'd  follow  like  a  little  fyce. 

I  never  played  a  little  game 

And  won  a  five  or  ten, 
But,  presto !  I  was  not  the  same 

As  common  makes  of  men. 
Not  Solomon  and  all  his  kind 
Held  half  the  wisdom  of  my  mind. 
And  so  I  'd  swell  to  twice  my  size, 
And  throw  my  hat  across  my  eyes, 
And  chew  a  quill,  and  wear  red  ties, 
And  tip  you  off  the  stock  to  rise  — 
Until,  at  last,  I  'd  have  to  steal 
The  baby's  bank  to  buy  a  meal. 

I  speak  as  if  these  things  remained 

All  in  the  perfect  tense, 
And  yet  I  don't  suppose  I  Ve  gained 

A  single  ounce  of  sense. 
I  scoff  these  tales  of  yesterday 
17 


IMPERTINENT    POEMS 

In  quite  a  supercilious  way, 
But  by  to-morrow  I  may  bump 
Into  some  newer  game  and  jump! 
You  '11  think  I  am  the  only  trump 
In  all  the  deck  until  —  kerslump ! 
Unless  you  '11  do  the  same  some  time, 
Of  course  you  have  n't  read  this  rime. 


18 


DON'T    YOU? 


DON'T    YOU? 

When  the  plan  that  I  have  to  grow  suddenly 

rich 

Grows  weary  of  leg  and  drops  into  the  ditch, 
And  scheme  follows  scheme 
Like  the  web  of  a  dream 
To  glamor  and  glimmer  and  shimmer  and 

seem, 

Only  seem ; 
And  then,  when  the  world  looks  unfadably 

blue, 

If  my  rival  sails  by, 
With  his  head  in  the  sky, 
And  sings  "  How  is  business?  "  why,  what 

do  I  do? 
Well,  I  claim  that  I  aim  to  be  honest  and 

true, 

But  I  sometimes  lie.    Don't  you? 

19 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 

When  something  at  home  is  decidedly  wrong, 
When  somebody  sings  a  false  note  in  the 

song, 

Too  low  or  too  high, 
And,  you  hardly  know  why, 
But  it  wrangles  and  jangles  and  runs  all 

awry, 

Aye,  awry! 
And  then,  at  the  moment  when  things  are 

askew, 

Some  cousin  sails  in 
With  a  face  all  a-grin, 
And  a  "  Do  I  intrude  ?    Oh,  I  see  that  I  do !  " 
Well,  then,  though  I  aim  to  be  honest  and 

true, 
Still  I  sometimes  lie.    Don't  you? 

When  a  man  that  I  need  has  some  foible  or 

fad, 

Not  very  commendable,  not  very  bad; 
Perhaps  it 's  his  daughter, 

20 


DON'T    YOU? 


And  some  one  has  taught  her 

To  daub  up  an  "  oil "  or  to  streak  up  a 

"water"; 

What  a  "water"! 
And  her  grass  is  green  green  and  her  sky 

is  blue  blue, 

But  her  father,  with  pride, 
In  a  stagey  aside 
Asks  my  "  candid  opinion."    Then  what  do 

I  do? 
Well,  I  claim  that  I  aim  to  be  honest  and 

true, 
But  I  sometimes  lie.    Don't  you? 


21 


IMPERTINENT    POEMS 


DON'T    TAKE    YOUR    TROUBLES 
TO    BED 

You  may  labor  your  fill,  friend  of  mine,  if 

you  will; 

You  may  worry  a  bit,  if  you  must; 
You  may  treat  your  affairs  as  a  series  of 

cares, 

You  may  live  on  a  scrap  and  a  crust ; 
But  when  the  day  's  done,  put  it  out  of  your 

head ; 
Don't  take  your  troubles  to  bed. 

You  may  batter  your  way  through  the  thick 

of  the  fray, 
You  may  sweat,  you  may  swear,  you  may 

grunt; 
You  may  be  a  jack-fool  if  ypu  must,  but  this 

rule 

22 


DON'T  TAKE  TROUBLES  TO  BED 

Should  ever  be  kept  at  the  front : 
Don't  fight  with  your  pillow,  but  lay  down 

your  head 
And  kick  every  worriment  out  of  the  bed. 

That  friend  or  that  foe  (which  he  is,  I  don't 

know), 

Whose  name  we  have  spoken  as  Death, 
Hovers  close  to  your  side,  while  you  run  or 

you  ride, 

And  he  envies  the  warmth  of  your  breath ; 
But  he  turns  him  away,  with  a  shake  of  his 

head, 
When  he  finds  that  you  don't  take  your 

troubles  to  bed. 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 


GOOD 

You  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass  and  say : 

"  Really,  I  'm  rather  distingue. 

To  be  sure  my  eyes 

Are  assorted  in  size, 

And  my  mouth  is  a  crack 

Running  too  far  back, 

And  I  hardly  suppose 

An  unclassified  nose 

Is  a  mark  of  beauty,  as  beauty  goes ; 

But  still  there  's  something  about  the  whole 

Suggesting  a  beauty  of  —  well,  say  soul." 

And  this  is  the  reason  that  photograph-gal 
leries 

Are  able  to  pay  employees'  salaries. 

Now,  this  little  mark  of  our  brotherhood, 

By  which  each  thinks  that  his  looks  are 
good, 


GOOD 

Is  laudable  quite  in  you  and  me, 
Provided  we  not  only  look,  but  be. 

I  look  at  my  poem  and  you  hear  me  say : 
"  Really,  it 's  clever  in  its  way. 
The  theme  is  old 
And  the  style  is  cold. 
These  words  run  rude; 
That  line  is  crude ; 
And  here  is  a  rhyme 
Which  fails  to  chime, 
And  the  metre  dances  out  of  time. 
Oh,  it  is  n't  so  bright  it  '11  blind  the  sun, 
But  it  's  better  than  this  by  Such-a-one." 
And  this  is  the  reason  I  and  my  creditors 
Curse   the    "  unreasoning   whims "   of   edi 
tors, 

And  yet,  if  one  writes  for  a  livelihood, 
He  ought  to  believe  that  his  work  is  good, 
Provided  the  form  that  his  vanity  takes 
Not  only  believes,  but  also  makes. 

25 


IMPERTINENT    POEMS 

And  there  is  our  neighbor.     We  've  heard 

him  say: 

"  Really,  I  'm  not  the  commonest  clay. 
Brown  got  his  dust 
By  betraying  a  trust; 
And  Jones's  wife 
Leads  a  terrible  life; 
While  I  have  heard 
That  Robinson's  word 
Is  n't  quite  as  good  as  Gas  preferred. 
And  Smith  has  a  soul  with  seamy  cracks, 
For  he  talks  of  people  behind  their  backs !  " 
And  these  are  the  reasons  the  penitentiary 
Holds  open  house  for  another  century. 
True,  we  want  no  man  in  our  neighborhood 
Who  does  n't  consider  his  character  good, 
But  then  it  ought  to  be  also  true 
He  not  only  knows  to  consider,  but  do. 


SUCCESS 


SUCCESS 

It 's  little  the  difference  where  you  arrive; 

The  serious  question  is  how  you  strive. 

Are  you  up  to  your  eyes  in  a  wild  ro 
mance? 

Does  your  lady  lead  you  a  dallying  dance? 

Do  you  question  if  love  be  fate,  or  chance? 

Oh,  the  world  will  ask  "  Did  he  get  the 
girl?  " 

Though    gentleman,    coxcomb,    clown    or 
churl, 

Master  or  menial  of  passion's  whirl. 

But  it  is  n't  that.    The  world  will  run 

Though  you  never  bequeath  it  daughter  or 
son, 

But  what,  O  lover,  will  come  to  you 

If  you  be  not  chivalrous,  honest,  true? 

As  far  ahead  as  a  man  may  think, 

27 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 

You  can  see  your  little  soul  shrivel  and 
shrink. 

It  's  not,  "  Do  you  win? " 
It  is  "  What  have  you  been?  " 

Are  you  stripped  for  the  world-old,  world 
wide  race 

For  the  metal  which  shines  like  the  sun's 
own  face 

Till  it  dazzles  us  blind  to  the  mean  and 
base? 

Do  you  say  to  yourself,  "  When  I  have  my 
hoard, 

I  will  give  of  the  plenty  which  I  have  stored, 

If  the  Lord  bless  me,  I  will  bless  the  Lord  "? 

And  do  you  forget,  as  you  pile  your  pelf, 

What  is  the  gift  you  are  giving  yourself? 

Though  your  mountain  of  gold  may  dazzle 
the  day, 

Can  you  climb  its  height  with  your  feet  of 

clay? 

28 


SUCCESS 


Oh,  it  is  n't  the  stamp  on  the  metal  you 

win; 
It 's  the  stamp  on  the  metal  you  coin  within. 

It  's  not  what  you  give; 

It  is  "  What  do  you  live?  " 

Are  you  going  to  sail  the  polar  seas 
To  the  point  of  ninety  and  north  degrees, 
Where  the  very  words  in  your  larynx  freeze? 
Well,  the  mob  may  ask  "  Did  he  reach  the 

pole? 
Though   fair,    or   foul,    did   he   touch   the 

goal? " 
But  if  that  be  the  spirit  which  stirs  your 

soul, 

Off,  off  from  the  land  below  the  zeroes; 
For  you  are  not  of  the  stuff  of  heroes. 
Ho!  many  a  man  can  lead  men  forth 
To  the  fearsome  end  of  the  Farthest  North, 
But  can  you  be  faithful  for  woe  or  weal 

In  a  land  where  nothing  but  self  is  leal? 

29 


IMPERTINENT    POEMS 

Oh,  it  is  n't  "  How  far?  " 
It  is  what  you  are. 

And  it  is  n't  your  lookout  where  you  arrive, 
But  it 's  up  to  you  as  to  how  you  strive. 


THE     GRILL 


THE    GRILL 

Why  do  you? 

What 's  it  to  you? 

I  know  you  do,  for  I  Ve  seen  the  gruesome 
feeling  simmer  through  you. 

I  Ve  seen  it  rise  behind  your  eyes 

And  take  your  features  by  surprise. 

I  Ve  seen  it  in  your  half -hid  grin 

And  the  tilting-upness  of  your  chin. 

Good-natured  though  you  are  and  fair,  as 
you  have  often  boasted, 

Still  you  like  to  hear  the  other  man  artisti 
cally  roasted. 

Whenever  the  star  secures  the  stage  with  the 

spotlight  in  the  centre, 
Why  should  the  anvil  chorus  think  it  has  the 

cue  to  enter? 

31 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 

Whenever  the   prima   donna   trills   the   E 

above  the  clef, 
Why  should  the  brasses  orchestrate  the  bass 

in  double  f  ? 

It  's  funny, 

But  it 's  even  money, 

You  like  to  spy  the  buzzing  fly  in  the  other 
fellow's  honey. 

Though  you  have  said  that  honest  bread 

Demands  no  honey  on  it  spread, 

And  if  we  eat  the  crusty  wheat 

With  appetite,  it  needs  no  sweet, 

Still  I  have  noticed  you  were  not  at  all  in 
clined  to  cry 

Because  the  man  the  bees  had  blest  was 
bothered  with  the  fly. 

Whenever  the  chef  concocts  a  dish  which  sets 
the  world  to  tasting, 
32 


THE     GRILL 


Why  does  the  cooking-school  get  out  its 

recipes  for  basting? 
Whenever  a  sprinter  beats  the  bunch  from 

the  pistol-shot,  why  is  it 
The  heavy  hammer  throwers  get  together 

for  a  visit? 

Excuse  me! 

Did  you  accuse  me 

Of  turning  the   spit  a  little   bit  myself? 

Why,  you  amuse  me! 

Did  n't  I  scratch  the  sulphurous  match 

And  blow  the  flame  to  make  it  catch? 

Did  n't  you  trot  to  get  the  pot 

To  heat  the  water  good  and  hot? 

Then,  seizing  on  our  victim,  if  we  found  no 
greater  sin, 

Did  n't  we  call  him  "  a  lobster,"  and  cheer 
fully  chuck  him  in? 


33 


IMPERTINENT    POEMS 


BLOOD   IS   RED 

Some  of  us  don't  drink,  some  of  us  do; 
Some  of  us  use  a  word  or  two. 
Most  of  us,  maybe,  are  half-way  ripe 
For  deeds  that  would  n't  look  well  in  type. 
All  of  us  have  done  things,  no  doubt, 
We  don't  very  often  brag  about. 
We  are  timidly  good,  we  are  badly  bold, 
But  there  's  hope  for  the  worst  of  us,  I  hold, 
If  there  be  a  few  things  we  did  n't  do, 
For  the  reason  that  we  so  wanted  to. 

Some  of  us  sin  on  a  smaller  scale. 

(We   don't   mind   minnows,   we   shy   at   a 

whale.) 

We  speak  of  a  woman  with  half  a  sneer, 
We  sit  on  our  hands  when  we  ought  to  cheer. 
The  salad  we  mix  in  the  bowl  of  the  heart 

34 


BLOOD    IS    RED 

We  sometimes  make  a  little  too  tart 

For  home  consumption.    We  growl,  we  nag, 

But  we  're  not  quite  lost  if  we  sometimes 

drag 

The  hot  words  back  and  make  them  mild 
At  the  moment  they  fret  to  be  running  wild. 

Don't  pin  your  faith  on  the  man  or  woman 
Who   never   is   tempted.     We   're   mostly 

human. 

And  whoever  he  be  who  never  has  felt 
The  red  blood  sing  in  the  veins  and  melt 
The  ice  of  convention,  caste  and  creed, 
To  the  very  last  barrier,  has  no  need 
To  raise  his  brows  at  the  rest  of  us. 
It  bides  its  time  in  the  rest  of  us, 
And  well  for  him  if  he  do  not  do 
That  which  the  strength  of  him  wants  him 

to. 


35 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 


DIAGNOSIS 

You  have  a  grudge  against  the  man 
Who  did  the  thing  you  could  n't  do. 
You  hatched  the  scheme,  you  laid  the  plan, 
And  yet  you  could  n't  push  it  through. 
You  strained  your  soul  and  could  n't  win ; 
He  gave  a  breath  and  it  was  easy. 
You  smile  and  swallow  your  chagrin, 
But,  oh,  the  swallow  makes  you  queasy. 

I  know  your  illness,  for,  you  see, 
The  diet  never  pleases  me. 

Your  dearest  friend  has  made  a  strike, 
Has  placed  his  mark  above  the  crowd, 
Has  won  the  thing  which  you  would  like 
And  you  are  glad  for  him,  and  proud. 
Your  tongue  is  swift,  your  cheek  is  red, 
36  ' 


DIAGNOSIS 


If  some  one  speak  to  his  detraction, 
And  yet,  the  fact  the  thing  is  said 
Affords  you  half  a  satisfaction. 

I  see  the  workings  of  your  mind 
Because  my  own  is  so  inclined. 

You  tell  me  fame  is  hollow  squeak, 
You  say  that  wealth  is  carking  care; 
And  to  live  care-free  a  single  week 
Is  more  than  years  of  work  and  wear. 
Alexander  weeps  his  highest  place, 
Diogenes  is  happy  sunning! 
What  matters  it  who  wins  the  race 
So  you  have  had  the  joy  of  running? 

And  yet,  you  covet  prize  and  pelf. 
I  know  it,  for  I  do,  myself. 


37 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 


THE   DILETTANTE 

To  lie  outright  in  the  light  of  day 

I  'm  not  sufficiently  skilful, 
But  I  practice  a  bit,  in  an  amateur  way, 

The  lie  which  is  hardly  wilful; 
The  society  lie  and  the  business  lie 

And  the  lie  I  have  had  to  double, 
And  the  lie  that  I  lie  when  I  don't  know  why 

And  the  truth  is  too  much  trouble. 
For  this  I  am  willing  to  take  your  blame 
Unless  you  have  sometimes  done  the  same. 

To  be  a  fool  of  an  Al  brand 

I  'm  not  sufficiently  clever, 
But  I  often  have  tried  my  'prentice  hand 

In  a  callow  and  crude  endeavor; 
A  fool  with  the  money  for  which  I  Ve  toiled, 

A  fool  with  the  word  I  Ve  spoken, 
38 


THE    DILETTANTE 

And  the  foolish  fool  who  is  fooled  and  foiled 

On  a  maiden's  finger  broken. 
If  you  never  yourself  have  made  a  slip, 
I  'm  willing  to  watch  you  curl  your  lip. 

And  yet  my  blood  and  my  bone  resist 

If  you  dub  me  fool  and  liar. 
I  set  my  teeth  and  double  my  fist 

And  my  brow  is  flushed  with  fire. 
You  I  deny  and  you  I  defy 

And  I  vow  I  will  make  you  rue  it; 
And  I  lie  when  I  say  that  I  never  lie, 

Which  proves  me  a  fool  to  do  it! 
You  may  jerk  your  thumb  at  me  and  grin 
If  liar  and  fool  you  never  have  been. 


39 


IMPERTINENT    POEMS 

DESIRE 

Oh,  the  ripe,  red  apple  which  handily  hung 
And  flaunted  and  taunted  and  swayed  and 

swung, 
Till  it  itched  your  fingers  and  tickled  your 

tongue, 

For  it  was  juicy  and  you  were  young! 
But  you  held  your  hands  and  you  ti 

Tr/"Vl!f»      Iwitl/l 


you  turned 


your  head, 
And  you  thought  of  the  switch  which  hung 

in  the  shed, 

And  you  did  n't  take  it  (or  so  you  said) , 
But  tell  me  —  did  n't  you  want  to? 

Oh,  the  rounded  maiden  who  passed  you 

by. 

Whose  cheek   was  dimpled,   whose   glance 
was  shy, 

40 


DESIRE 

But  who  looked  at  you  out  of  the  tail  of 

her  eye, 

And  flirted  her  skirt  just  a  trifle  high! 
Oh,  you  were  human  and  not  sedate, 
But  you  thought  of  the  narrow  way  and 

straight, 

And  you  did  n't  follow  (or  so  you  state) , 
But  tell  me  —  did  n't  you  want  to  ? 

Oh,    the    golden    chink    and    the    sibilant 

sign 

Which  sang  of  honey  and  love  and  wine, 
Of    pleasure    and    power   when   the    sun's 

ashine 

And  plenty  and  peace  in  the  day's  decline! 
Oh,  the  dream  was  schemed  and  the  play  was 

planned ; 
You  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  reach  your 

hand, 

But  you  did  n't  (or  so  I  understand), 
But  tell  me  —  did  n't  you  want  to? 
41 


IMPERTINENT    POEMS 

Oh,  you  wanted  to,  yes ;  and  hence  you  crow 
That  the  Want  To  within  you  found  its  foe 
Which  wanted  you  not  to  want  to,  and  so 
You  were  able  to  answer  always  "  No." 
So  you  tell  yourself  you  are  pretty  fine  clay 
To  have  tricked  temptation  and  turned  it 

away ; 

But  wait,  my  friend,  for  a  different  day! 
Wait  till  you  want  to  want  to! 


HUSH 


HUSH 

What  's  the  best  thing  that  you  ever  have 

done? 

The  whitest  day, 
The  cleverest  play 

That  ever  you  set  in  the  shine  of  the  sun? 
The  time  that  you  felt  just  a  wee  bit  proud 
Of  defying  the  cry  of  the  cowardly  crowd 
And  stood  back  to  back  with  God? 
Aye,  I  notice  you  nod, 
But   silence   yourself,   lest   you   bring   me 

shame 
That  I  have  no  answering  deed  to  name. 

What   's   the   worst   thing   that  ever   you 

did? 

The  darkest  spot, 
The  blackest  blot 

43 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 

On  the  page  you  have  pasted  together  and 

hid? 
Ah,  sometimes  you  think  you  Ve  forgotten 

it  quite, 
Till  it  crawls  in  your  bed  in  the  dead  of  the 

night 

And  brands  you  its  own  with  a  blush. 
What  was  it?    Nay,  hush! 
Don't  tell  it  to  me,  for  fear  it  be  known 
That   I  have   an   answering  blush   of  my 

own. 

But  whenever  you  notice  a  clean  hit  made, 

Sing  high  and  clear 

The  sounding  cheer 

You  would  gladly  have  heard  for  the  play 

you  played. 

And  when  a  man  walks  in  the  way  forbidden, 
Think  you  of  the  thing  you  have  happily 

hidden 
And  spare  him  the  sting  of  your  tongue. 

44 


HUSH 

Do  I  do  that  which  I  Ve  sung? 
Well,  it  may  be  I  don't  and  it  may  be  I  do, 
But  I  'm  telling  the  thing  which  is  good  for 
you! 


45 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 


PLUG 

As  you  have  n't  asked  me  for  advice,  I  '11 
give  it  to  you  now : 
Plug! 

No  matter  who  or  what  you  are,  or  where 
you  are,  the  how 

Is  plug. 
You  may  take  your  dictionary  unabridged 

and  con  it  through, 
You  may  swallow  the  Britannica  and  all  its 

retinue, 

But  here  I  lay  it  f .  o.  b.  —  the  only  word 
for  you 

Is  plug. 

Are  you  in  the  big  procession,  but  away 
behind  the  band? 

Plug! 
46 


PLUG 

On  the  cobble,  or  asphaltum,  in  the  mud  or 

in  the  sand, 

Plug! 
Oh,  you  '11  hear  the  story  frequently  of  how 

some  clever  man 
Cut  clean  across  the  country,  so  that  now 

he  's  in  the  van; 
You  may  think  that  you  will  do  it,  but  I  don't 

believe  you  can, 

So  plug ! 

Are  you  singing  in  the  chorus  ?   Do  you  want 
to  be  a  star? 

Plug! 

You  may  think  that  you  're  a  genius,  but  I 
don't  believe  you  are, 

So  plug! 
Oh,  you  '11  hear  of  this  or  that  one  who  was 

born  without  a  name, 

Who  slept  eleven  hours  a  day  and  dreamed 
the  way  to  fame, 
47 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 

Who  simply  could  n't  push  it  off,  so  rapidly 
it  camel 

But  plug. 

Are  you  living  in  the  valley?    Do  you  want 
to  reach  the  height? 
Plug! 

Where  the  hottest  sun  of  day  is  and  the  cold 
est  stars  of  night? 

Plug! 
Oh,  it  may  be  you  're  a  fool,  but  if  a  fool 

you  want  to  be, 
If  you  want  to  climb  above  the  crowd  so 

every  one  can  see 

Just  how  a  fool  may  look  when  he  is  at  his 
apogee, 

Why,  plug! 

Can  you  make  a  mile  a  minute?    Do  you 
want  to  make  it  two? 
Plug! 
48 


PLUG 

Are  you  good  and  up  against  it?    Well,  the 

only  thing  to  do 

Is  plug. 
Oh,  you  '11  find  some  marshy  places,  where 

the  crust  is  pretty  thin, 
And  when  you  think  you  're  gliding  out, 

you  're  only  sliding  in, 
But  the  only  thing  for  you  to  do  is  think  of 

this  and  grin, 

And  plug. 


There  's  many  a  word  that  's  prettier  that 
has  n't  half  the  cheer 

Of  plug. 

It  may  not  save  you  in  a  day,  but  try  it  for  a 
year. 

Plug! 

And  to  show  you  I  am  competent  to  tell  you 
what  is  what, 


49 


IMPERTINENT    POEMS 

I  assure  you  that  I  never  yet  have  made  a 

centre  shot, 
Which  surely  is  an  ample  demonstration  that 

I  ought 

To  plug. 


CONSCIENCE      PIANISSIMO 


CONSCIENCE    PIANISSIMO 

You  are  honest  as  daylight.    You  're  often 

assured 
That  your  word  is  as  good  as  your  note  — 

unsecured. 
We  could  trust  you  with  millions  unaudited, 

but  — 

(Tut,  tut! 

There  is  always  a  "  but," 
So  don't  get  excited,)  I  'm  pained  to  per 
ceive 

It  is  seldom  I  notice  you  grumble  or  grieve 
When  the  custom-house  officer  pockets  your 

tip 
And  passes  the  contraband  goods  in  your 

grip. 
You  would  scorn  to  be  shy  on  your  ante,  I  'm 

certain, 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 

But  skinning  your  Uncle  you  're  rather  ex 
pert  in. 

Well,  I  'm  proud  that  no  taint  of  the  sort 
touches  me. 

(For  I  Ve  never  been  over  the  water,  you 
see.) 

Your  yardstick  's  a  yard  and  your  goods  are 
all  wool; 

Your  bushel  's  four  pecks  and  you  measure 
it  full. 

You  are  proud  of  your  business  integrity, 
yet  — 

(Don't  fret! 

There  is  always  a  "  yet,") 

I  never  noticed  a  sign  of  distress,  or 

Disturbance  in  you,  when  the  upright  as 
sessor 

Has  listed  your  property  somewhere  about 

Half  what  you  would  take  were  you  selling 
it  out. 

52 


CONSCIENCE      PIANISSIMO 

You  're  as  true  to  the  world  as  the  world  to 

its  axis, 
But  you  chuckle  to  swear  off  your  personal 

taxes. 
As  for  me,  I  would  scorn  to  do  any  such 

thing, 
(Though  I  may  have  considered  the  question 

last  spring.) 

You  have  notions  of  right.     You  would 

count  it  a  sin 

To  cheat  a  blind  billionaire  out  of  a  pin. 
You  have  a  contempt  for  a  pettiness,  still  — 
(Don't  chill! 

There  is  always  a  "  still,") 
I  never  have  noticed  you  storm  with  neglect 
Because  the  conductor  had  failed  to  collect, 
Or  growl  that  the  game  was  n't  run  on  the 

square 

When  your  boy  in  the  high  school  paid  only 
half-fare. 

53 


IMPERTINENT    POEMS 

The  voice  of  your  conscience  is  lusty  and 

audible, 
But  a  railroad  —  good  heavens !  why,  that 's 

only  laudable. 

Of  course,  /  am  quite  in  a  different  class; 
For  me,  it  is  painful  to  ride  on  a  pass! 


54 


YOU    WAIT 


YOU   WAIT 

When  you  and  I  were  little  boys, 
Afraid  of  girls  and  fond  of  toys, 
It  often  chanced  that  some  distress 
Imposed  upon  our  littleness. 
Perhaps  we  entered  in  the  lists 
Against  some  boy  with  faster  fists; 
Perhaps  the  teacher  kept  us  in 
Not  for  our  own,  but  others'  sin; 
Perhaps  parental  wrath  was  dealt 
(Against  all  rules)  below  the  belt; 
And,  smarting  in  our  childish  hate, 
We  threatened  "  Never  mind!  you  wait! 
I  '11  make  you  sorry  some  day,  when 
I  get  to  be  a  big  man.    Then 
I  —  well  —  I  will." 

And  now  that  we  are  little  men, 
It  likewise  happens,  now  and  then, 

55 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 

We  have  a  round  or  two  with  Fate 
And  find  we  're  somewhat  underweight. 
Perhaps  your  services  are  spurned, 
Perhaps  my  poem  is  returned; 
Perhaps  some  hand  preempts  the  peach 
Just  ripening  within  your  reach ; 
Perhaps  some  critic  gently  swats 
Me  somewhere  in  the  vital  spots. 
And  then,  although  we  dryly  grin, 
The  little  voice  is  heard  within ;  — 
"I  '11  show  these  fellows  some  day,  when 
I  get  to  be  a  big  man.    Then 
I  — well  — I  will." 

And  though  a  larger  place  we  fill, 
The  Nemesis  is  working  still. 
The  author's  favorite  book  is  cursed, 
The  judge's  ruling  is  reversed; 
The  Congressman  sits  meekly  by 
Unfavored  of  the  Speaker's  eye ; 
The  Senator  stands  down  the  line 
56 


YOU    WAIT 


When  Cabinet  officials  dine; 
The  President's  knee  becomes  infirm 
Before  the  god,  Another  Term. 
And  in  the  inmost  heart  of  each 
There  cries  again  the  boyish  speech ;  - 
"  It  will  be  different  some  day  when 
I  am  a  great  big  man.    Ah,  then 
I  —  weU  —  I  will" 


57 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 


PASS 

Did  somebody  give  you  a  pat  on  the  back? 

Pass  it  on! 
Let  somebody  else  have  a  taste  of  the  smack, 

Pass  it  on! 
If  it  heightens  your  courage,  or  lightens  your 

pack, 
If  it  kisses  your  soul,  with  a  song  in  the 

smack, 

Maybe  somebody  else  has  been  dressing  in 
black ; 

Pass  it  on! 

God  gives  you  a  smile,  not  to  make  it  a 
yawn; 

Pass  it  on! 

Did  somebody  show  you  a  slanderous  mess? 
Pass  it  by! 


PASS 

When  a  brook  's  flowing  by,  will  you  drink 
at  the  cess? 

Pass  it  by! 
Dame  Gossip   's  a  wanton,   whatever  her 

dress ; 

Her  sire  was  a  lie  and  her  dam  was  a  guess, 
And  a  poison  is  in  her  polluting  caress; 

Pass  it  by! 

Unless  you  're  a  porker,  keep  out  of  the  sty. 

Pass  it  by! 


Did  somebody  give  you  an  insolent  word? 

Pass  it  up! 
'T  is  the  creak  of  a  cricket,  the  pwit  of  a 

bird; 

Pass  it  up! 
Shake  your  fist  at  the  sea!    Is  its  majesty 

blurred? 
Blow  your  breath  at  the  sky!    Is  its  purity 

slurred? 

59 


IMPERTINENT    POEMS 

But  the  shallowest  puddle,  how  easily  stirred  I 

Pass  it  up ! 

Does  the  puddle  invite  you  to  dip  in  your 
cup? 

Pass  it  up! 


60 


MOVE 


MOVE 

We  are  on  the  main  line  of  a  crowded  track ; 
We  Ve  got  to  go  forward;    we  can't  go 

back 

And  run  the  risk  of  colliding : 
We  must  make  schedule,  not  now  and  again, 
But  always,  forever  and  ever,  amen! 

Or  else  switch  off  on  a  siding. 
If  ever  we  loaf,  like  a  car  in  the  yard, 
Does  n't  somebody  bump  us,  and  bump  us 
hard, 

I  wonder? 

You  Ve  succeeded  in  building  a  pretty  fair 

trade, 
But  can  you  sit  down  in  the  grateful  shade 

And  kill  time  cutting  up  capers? 
Or  must  you  hustle  and  scheme  and  sweat, 

61 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 

Though  the  shine  be  fine  or  the  weather  be 

wet, 

And  keep  your  page  in  the  papers? 
If  ever  you  fail  to  be  pulling  the  strings, 
Are  n't  some  of  your  rivals  around  doing 
things, 

I  wonder? 

Your  a  first-class  salesman.    You  know  your 

line; 
Your  house  is  good  and  your  goods  are 

fine, 

So  you  fill  your  book  with  orders, 
But  can  you  get  quit  of  the  ball  and  chain, 
Or  are  you  in  jail  on  a  railroad  train, 
With  blue-coated  men  for  warders? 
If  you  sent  your  samples  and  cut  out  the 

trip, 

Would  n't  somebody  else  soon  be  lugging 
your  grip, 

I  wonder? 
62 


MOVE 

You  are  starred  on  the  bills  and  are  chummy 

with  fame; 
The  man  on  the  corner  could  tell  you  your 

name 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
But  can  you  depend  on  the  mind  of  the  mob? 
Can  you  tell  your  press-agent  to  look  for 

a  job, 

Or  give  your  manager  warning? 
Should  you  lie  down  to  sleep,  with  your 

laurels  beneath, 

Would  n't  somebody  else  soon  be  wearing 
your  wreath, 

I  wonder? 

Oh,  I  *m  willing  to  work,  but  I  wish  I  could 


Not  f eeling  as  if  I  were  "  it "  for  tag, 

Or  last  in  f  ollow-my-leader ; 
There  is  only  one  spot  where,  I  have  n't  a 
doubt, 

63 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 

Nobody  will  try  to  be  crowding  me  out, 

And  that  is  under  the  cedar. 
And    even    in    that    place,    will    Gabriel's 

trump 

Come  nagging  along  and  be  making  me 
jump! 

I  wonder? 


ARE     YOU    YOU? 


ARE    YOU   YOU? 

Are  you  a  trailer,  or  are  you  a  trolley? 
Are  you  tagged  to  a  leader  through  wisdom 

and  folly? 

Are  you  Somebody  Else,  or  You? 
Do  you  vote  by  the  symbol  and  swallow  it 

"straight"? 
Do  you  pray  by  the  book,  do  you  pay  by 

the  rate? 
Do  you  tie  your  cravat  by  the  calendar's 

date? 
Do  you  follow  a  cue? 

Are  you  a  writer,  or  that  which  is  worded? 
Are  you  a  shepherd,  or  one  of  the  herded? 

Which  are  you  —  a  What  or  a  Who? 
It  sounds  well  to  call  yourself  "  one  of  the 
flock," 

65 


IMPERTINENT    POEMS 

But  a  sheep  is  a  sheep  after  all.     At  the 

block 
You  're  nothing  but  mutton,  or  possibly 

stock. 
Would  you  flavor  a  stew? 

Are  you  a  being  and  boss  of  your  soul? 
Or  are  you  a  mummy  to  carry  a  scroll? 

Are  you  Somebody  Else,  or  You? 
When   you   finally   pass   to   the   heavenly 

wicket 
Where  Peter  the  Scrutinous  stands  on  his 

picket, 
Are  you  going  to  give  him  a  blank  for  a 

ticket? 
Do  you  think  it  will  do? 


THE     BUBBLE-FLIES 


THE   BUBBLE -FLIES 

Let  me  read  a  homily 
Concerning  an  anomaly 

I  view 

In  you. 

Whatever  you  are  striving  for, 
Whatever  you  are  driving  for, 
'T  is  not  alone  because  you  crave 
To  be  successful  that  you  slave 
To  swim  upon  the  topmost  wave. 
You  care  less  what  your  station  is, 
But  more  what  your  relation  is. 
To  be  a  bit  above  the  rest! 
To  be  upon,  or  of,  the  crest! 
Ah!  that  is  where  the  troifble  lies 
Which  stirs  you  little  bubble-flies. 

(I  sneer  these  sneers,  but  just  the  same 
I  keep  my  fingers  in  the  game.) 
67 


IMPERTINENT     POEMS 

See!  you  have  eat-and-drinkables 
And  portables  and  thinkables 

And  yet 

You  fret. 

For  what?  Let 's  reach  the  heart  of  you 
And  see  the  funny  part  of  you. 
For  what?    I  find  the  soul  and  seed 
Of  it  is  not  your  lack  or  need, 
Or  even  merely  vulgar  greed. 
Gold?    You  may  have  a  store  of  it, 
But  —  some  one  else  has  more  of  it. 
Fame?    Pretty  things  are  said  of  you, 
But  —  some  one  is  ahead  of  you. 
Place?    You  disprize  your  easy  one 
For  some  one's  high  and  breezy  one. 

(I  smile  these  smiles  to  soothe  my  soul, 
But  squint  one  eye  upon  the  goal. ) 

Tell  me!  what  's  your  capacity 
Compared  to  your  voracity? 
68 


THE     BUBBLE-FLIES 

I  guess 

'T  is  less. 

And  so  I  strike  these  attitudes 
And  tender  you  these  platitudes ;  — 
Not  wishing  wealth,  or  spurning  it, 
Not  hoarding  it,  or  burning  it 
Is  equal  to  the  earning  it. 
Life's  race  is  in  the  riding  it, 
Not  in  the  word  deciding  it. 
And  after  all  is  said  and  uttered 
The  keenest  taste  is  bread-and-buttered. 

(And  yet  —  and  yet  —  my  palate  aches 
For  pallid  pie  and  pasty  cakes!) 


69 


IMPERTINENT    POEMS 


HOW   DID   YOU   DIE  ? 

Did  you  tackle  that  trouble  that  came  your 
way 

With  a  resolute  heart  and  cheerful? 
Or  hide  your  face  from  the  light  of  day 

With  a  craven  soul  and  fearful? 
Oh,  a  trouble  's  a  ton,  or  a  trouble  's  an  ounce, 

Or  a  trouble  is  what  you  make  it, 
And  it  is  n't  the  fact  that  you  're  hurt  that 
counts, 

But  only  how  did  you  take  it? 

You  are  beaten  to  earth  ?   Well,  well,  what 's 
that? 

Come  up  with  a  smiling  face. 
It 's  nothing  against  you  to  fall  down  flat, 

But  to  lie  there  —  that 's  disgrace. 


70 


HOW    DID    YOU    DIE? 

The  harder  you  're  thrown,  why  the  higher 

you  bounce; 

Be  proud  of  your  blackened  eye! 
It  is  n't  the  fact  that  you  're  licked  that 

counts ; 
It 's  how  did  you  fight  —  and  why? 

And  though  you  be  done  to  the  death,  what 
then? 

If  you  battled  the  best  you  could, 
If  you  played  your  part  in  the  world  of  men, 

Why,  the  Critic  will  call  it  good. 
Death  comes  with  a  crawl,  or  comes  with  a 
pounce, 

And  whether  he  's  slow  or  spry, 
It  is  n't  the  fact  that  you  're  dead  that  counts, 

But  only  how  did  you  die? 

THE  END. 


A        nnn  n  '"  l 


